


Free Bird

by Hikari_no_Chibi, RiskPig



Category: 'Screenplay' Safe (TV Episode 1993), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CrankyNerdGirl, F/M, Lady Therion, Riskpig, Rumbelle Christmas in July
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskPig/pseuds/RiskPig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set about a decade or so after the events in Safe, Nosty has just been released from prison and finds the whole world changed. To make matters worse, a gang of middle-class school children is encroaching on his turf.  Written for Lady Therion, to the prompt: "Nostelle Belle is a tattoo artist"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady-Therion](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lady-Therion).



> Merry Christmas in July, lady-therion! Are you surprised to find out you had TWO Santas!? It’s riskpig and crankynerdgirl! For anybody else who’s reading, Lady Therion prompted “(Nostelle) Belle is a tattoo artist.” It was Cranky’s first time writing Nostelle (and she’s sad to say the pairing got the better of her) but with such wonderful art by Risk, who needs words anyway? :P

 

"Well chappie, it's a banner fucking day for Buckingham - yer to be weaned off Her Majesty’s saggy teats at long last, God save 'em."

Nosty glared up at the pudding-faced Scouser rifling through his things. He hadn’t much to his name the night they arrested him, and he’d been wearing most of it at the time. It had all ended up in the drab-looking box held between the man’s meaty hands. Leathers - check. Jumper - torn and bloodied, but still held together by dense wool and stubbornness. Check. Blanket - thankfully rid of fleas, a marked improvement over the last time he saw it. Check.

All that was his, plus a few sundry goods that hadn't been remanded to evidence or thrown away for sanitation – whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. What did these arseholes know from sanitary? They'd tried to shave his head when they processed him, the bastards, but he'd won that struggle, howling like a mad man even through two rounds of sedatives. Lice couldn't survive for long in matted, greasy hair. So, though he’d been mostly repugnant to the prison guards and many of the other inmates (and wasn’t that a blessing in disguise?), he hadn’t been a threat to public hygiene.

"Yer going home, son," the guard repeated, as though he hadn’t adequately comprehended the guard’s sophomoric wit, or the long walk from his cell through the outbound prisoner processing. Sophomoric – that was a word he’d learned working in the library. You could just about do a bloke with enough sheets of paper folded into a point, but he’d read a few of the saucier ones to pass the time. Sophomoric was right up there with barbiturate and arabesque for words he couldn’t have pronounced if he tried (and wouldn’t have tried, on penalty of shanking). Even so, they rattled around safe in the confines of his mind.

Nosty kept his mouth shut and grimaced.

He was going home today, wherever that's supposed to be, and this cunt wasn’t going to ruin it for him.

“Are ya deaf, son?” the guard chortled, giving him a shove in the chest along with his clothes.

"Feck off," Nosty growled, dropping trou right there in the lobby and folding his make-shift kilt around his arse. The man was suitably cowed by the sight of Nosty’s cock hanging out.

He caught the blurred reflection of himself in the stainless steel of the industrial-strength walls as he changed: skinny, pale, scarred. The faded ink on his neck looked like nothing more than a smudge in the pock-marked surface, but the newer stain on his bicep stood out darker. He wouldn’t be sorry to see the sleeve of his jumper swallow that travesty.

After that, it was a simple matter of stamping papers and fiddling with computers until they shoved him out the door.

"Good riddance," muttered Officer Fat-Head as the doors slammed shut behind him.

He was his own man again.

Now where the fuck was he supposed to go? Everybody he knew was either dead or wishing they were. It was a good life, vagrancy, but not typically a long one. His veins itched just thinking about how flush with junk they'd been ‘round the fire, under the overpass - and him at the center of it: king o’ the trolls.

Going back after ten years to find it vacant would destroy him. The only thing more terrible would be returning to see everything just as it was, rubbing along merrily without him. But he knew he’d go anyway. Fucking mental, he was. Fucking trash.

Nosty skulked in front of the prison for an hour and a half before they sent someone out to move him along. A bored-looking lady put him on a coach and handed him a card for a half-way house in Glasgow, and just like that he wasn’t her problem anymore. As though he’d tuck tail and run north so close to autumn! Not fucking likely – it pissed down icy rain and the days were too damn short. Instead, he changed coaches at a rest stop on the A1, and made it all the way to White Chapel before they made him for a bum. He managed to nick some tourist's pack when they booted him - the wankers - and he got lucky: there were some cash and spare clothes in it. Enough to keep him warm, at least. Just until he can score.

Not to use. Probably. Maybe. But if he doesn’t start selling within the week, he'll be shite out of luck when the snow falls. It didn’t snow much in London (what they mostly got was slush), certainly not compared to the winters in Scotland, but as he couldn’t afford a posh holiday abroad, the only alternative was to find shelter and some cash for supplies.

He just needed to see about his boys first. Had to be certain they’d all gone. And he needed to get another knife somewhere, just in case any of the old boys really were at home to him. Maybe he'd use it to put himself out of his misery afterward.

Nosty made it three whole blocks closer to the river, grateful that his sturdy-built boots don't seem the worse for their time in lock-up, when the street lamps come on and the night begins to settle. Fog rolled thick off the Thames, and for a moment he was lost. There wasn’t a trace of his old life in the mist - not a whiff – but there were shadows. Shapes and suggestions, stalking him. Closing in. He couldn’t see himself clearly anymore, and the silence was too much. Even the traffic was muffled in a pea-souper like this.

It’d all gone a tad mental all of a sudden. Alone in the world, what is he? Less than nothing. And if he had to spend one more fucking minute in the void of his own thoughts, he'd shatter on the pavement like a broken bottle.

"Oi, bruv!" shouted a high, cottony voice from somewhere behind him.

Nosty turned to face it and saw a kid - a fucking pack of them, by their hazy outline in the nearest zebra crossing - all dressed in sagging jeans and hoodies. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed speaker looked like he was eating regularly. Good. It meant he’d be soft. The ones with something to live for (or at least had another meal in sight) always were.

"This is a Black Hound street, bruv,” the boy said, shuffling forward. "And since you ent a Hound, you ent welcome, yeah? So how 'bout you toss us that pack and piss back off to wherever you come from?"

And just like that, Nosty was home again.

"Oh my, oh my," Nosty preened, throwing his shoulders back and his chin up. "If it isn't wee little pup got the wrong end of a stick." He was spitting through his accent by the time they came face to face under a street lamp. A few of the wiser ones faded into the mist when they got a better look at him.

Each lad remaining wore a black dog collar ‘round his neck. They noticed him noticing, and one suicidal maniac stepped up to examine Nosty’s neck in turn.

"He's got a poof tat, him," laughed the unlucky boy.

"Swallows, does he? Do you like sucking cocks, poofter?" The mouthy one produced a blade from up his sleeve. “Want to suck on mine? Fucking pedo.”

"Oh, does mum know her wee bairn’s bent?" Nosty snarled back, dropping into a fighting stance. “Or where her butter knife’s gone – oh tremble, tremble. Just what are ye plannin’ son? Ye goin’ tae spread me tae death?”

He feinted twice then lunged, bollocking the bloke and tearing away the blade. He pressed the serrated edge into the boy's throat. It wasn’t sharp, but that’d never stopped anyone with enough pent-up aggression.

Prison beat some of the wildness from him, made a more disciplined scrapper of him. You either got tough or got fucked, and Nosty’d always been a quick learner. He knew how to handle a pack. The boy's mates looked just stupid enough to get in their own way before they can get to him, so Nosty brought his face near to kissing the one whose demeanor screamed Leader. You had to start from the head and work your way down, or you’d be at it all night.

"I done a bird, me. A brace o’ birds, y’ken? Proper hard. So call 'em off, er I'll slice me off a piece fer me tea," he seethed, pressing a hot, wet kiss against the lad’s lips. The boy all but shat himself. Stupidly easy. What remained of the pack emptied their pockets and submitted at last - netting him three steak knives (one with an edge worth mentioning), four mobile phones, and several bags of weed.

He'd have preferred smack, but weed would be less tempting. Less risky. Less money to be made.

"Please bruv, not the puff," one of the wee brats begged. "Malcolm's gonna kill us if we lose his shit."

"Who the feck is Malcolm?" Nosty mocked, utterly dumbfounded. He had a knife to their mate's neck, and this lot was fucking whining about a bit of weed! Grassers, the lot of them. These boys weren't even properly grown yet, which meant at least one had a mum who'd call the cops to find him. Nosty knew better than to gamble on odds like that.

"Malcolm runs these streets, bruv," explained the one trembling in his grasp. "He ent gonna be happy wif you. Some mad Scott fuckin' mugs us and steals his shit... He'll come for you, mate."

"Oh, really? Sounds tae me like he’ll have more tae do wi’ the wee, dumb cunts what lost his puff in the first place, yeah? Sounds tae me like you lot ought tae ask me kindly not tae gut you.” To make his point, Nosty kneed the boy hard in the balls, and then brought his knee up again when the lad doubled over - easily breaking his nose.

"You streaks o’ piss tell Malcolm that these streets are under new management, y'ken?"

"You're insane!" one of the boys yells, legging it into the mist. The other stays to help his bleeding friend.

"Tell him yourself, mate," said the one who'd been mostly silent.

"Oh gladly," Nosty preened. He tossed one of the mobiles to him, and shovels the rest of their things into his stolen pack. "You ring up Malcolm and I’ll tell him where tae find me and ‘is boys if he’s got a problem wi’ any o’ this."

The blonde and bloodied one kicked the coffin-shaped phone back at him and shook his head. "Ent worth me life, mate."

"He'll be at The Illustrated Woman on Osborn Street," the other grassed. "Tall bloke - full ink up bofe arms, ‘cept for the right shoulder. Wears the collar. We’s s’posed to meet up an’ see to the shop keep if she didn't come 'round. He'll be 'specting us."

"We just want to go home, mate," the would-be leader begged.

Fear. Finally a reaction Nosty comprehends. He let them back away, and watched as they rounded a corner several blocks away. Then he turned his back on them. All that, and not a bloody siren or scream.... Fucking lucky. Plus, now he had enough weed and cash to make a go of it with or without his lads. If this was the new London, full of bossy little shites with butter knives, then Nosty's was going to be their king.

He flipped through his collection of stolen bill-folds in a daze, ditching anything with a name or identifiable marker on it. Then he stopped at a dumpster and fished out an empty wine bottle from out of split-open bag of recycling. He had a date on Osborn Street.

*

Belle was not a woman who scared easily, but she was pressed against the edge of panic tonight. Her unwanted visitor was much older than the boys whose lives he took for granted, but he still passed for a teenager in a certain light. A tall, scrappy teenager, with a good three stone and eighteen inches on her own lithe frame. Last time Malcolm Barrie appeared in her shop, asking her to complete her work on his full-sleeve design, she'd told him to take a hike. He'd been a good customer in the past, it was true, but she didn't tattoo gang signs. Not for any amount of money.

The next day, the crude attempts at intimidation started, but Belle held firm. If he wanted the art they'd agreed on three months ago - covering his right shoulder with a series of stars patterned after Neverland - then that was fine. But if he still wanted to make a last-minute change to the droopy (and somewhat cartoonish) hound design that served as the calling-card for his gang, then they were done. Permanently.

"Just go to another artist," Belle sighed, bracing herself against the register, fingers slipping along the edge of her counter to where the security alarm was secreted away. "I'm closed."

If she backed up, if she buckled, if she showed anything but bravery, things were going to go sideways. They still might.

The first time he made a scene, one of her regulars - a massive man who worked as a bouncer for some of the downtown clubs - had set him straight. But she was in the shop alone this time. Why - why! - hadn't she remembered to lock the door as she was tidying up?

"Now, we both know they'd never match your style, darling," Barrie purred, reaching a pale hand forward to cup her cheek. Like many of the upper-middle class men who came into her shop, his tattoos stopped a couple inches short of the wrist. Personally, she’d always found the abruptness of it rather chimera-like, and preferred to work organically with the contours of the body – and bugger what the rest of the world had to say.

His hand felt cool, steady, and dry. Belle flinched, despite herself. The menacing man laughed at her discomfort. His hand dropped from her cheek, and she felt his palm ease its way down her arm.

"You know, I've always wondered," he said, more for the benefit of the lackey behind him. "For a lady-bird who does fantastic ink, why aren't you sporting more of it? Is it all hidden under that skirt? Is it sexy?"

Belle's eyes shot open, revulsion turning to rage. It was at that precise moment that the rear window of her shop shattered and a screaming mad-man in a floor-length kilt burst into the room.

The newcomer shouted something incomprehensible and smashed a bottle into the side of Malcolm Barrie's face, before slicing madly with what shards remained. Barrie crumpled instantly, throwing Belle’s front-of-house into total disarray. She ducked under her register and reached for her cricket bat before the intruder landed his third kick. He didn’t show any signs of stopping. She could hear heavy blows landing as the man screamed a litany of profanity. Then he had Barrie’s trousers down around his knees.

"What- no!" Belle shouted, but it was too late. Her pictish savior was rifling through the pockets while uttering a string of obscenities she'd only heard before in the alleys outside The Blue Parrot Club.

"I'll bugger ye wi' a braeken bo'le if I e're see ye again, y'ken. Ye dinnae come intae my streets, y' wee, soft feck!" He put the boot in again.

With his two lackeys scattered and a madman beating him half to death, Belle found herself in the unlikely position of having to react in defense . She swung her bat and clipped the screaming assailant on the side of his head. Barrie was a lot of things, but Belle couldn’t stand idly by and watch a murder be done.

"Feck!" the stranger roared, turning to face her at last. "Fecking hell, missus, there ent no cause for that!"

"No cause? You've only beaten a man half to death in my shop!"

He looked between her and Barrie, uncomprehending. The look on his face said clearly that there was only so much responsibility he could bear toward a creep like Malcolm, and that since the other man was now bloodied and half-naked (but struggling to rise to his feet), that line clearly hadn't been crossed.

Whatever rebuttal he might have made was cut short by the flashing lights and sirens closing in on their block.

"Ye called the feckin' cops?" asked the dreadlocked man indignantly. He looked as though someone had turned his fight-or-flight instincts against one another in a cage match, and neither side was coming winning.

"No, not yet,” Belle answered unthinking. The police were headed somewhere else, but maybe she ought to have lied. “I will though, unless you both get out.”

“Ye hit me in the feckin’ head!” he bellowed.

“Well what was I supposed to do? First Malcolm comes in here and corners me, and then you burst in and try to murder him! Are you a vigilante? Are you robbing me? Oh -- look out!" But it was too late; Malcolm hadn’t quite found his feet, but that didn’t seem to matter. He lashed out wildly, and took a swing at the other man with a box cutter. Where the hell had he been hiding that?

Belle and the Scotsman shared a knowing look in the half-second before her store erupted. He dropped his bottle, and they both took a swing at Malcolm.

Twenty minutes later, The Illustrated Woman was a wreck. Malcolm had fled the scene when it became clear that Belle was prepared to fight. The other man - who would only identify himself as Nasty – had used his sharp fist and heavy boots to stunning effect. They were winded, but doing okay. She’d have a few bruises come morning, and Nasty sported a superficial laceration over his shoulder, but his thick jumper took most of the damage.

All that was left to do now was for her to call the police and make a report.

“Nae cops!” Nasty snarled, slamming his hand over her office phone as soon as she’d dialed the first two 9s.

“I’m not pressing charges against you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Belle told him. “I think you were trying to help.”

He looked at her like she was insane.

“You were trying to help me,” Belle repeated meaningfully, telling him how it was going to be remembered. “The rest of it was self-defense, or defense of property.”

Nasty nodded, comprehending.

“Malcolm Barrie did this,” Belle went on. “He's a gang leader. Everybody knows it, but because this is a Bangladeshi neighborhood, the police ignore it. He’d have done worse than this if you hadn’t come along, believe me.” That or she’d have given him his tattoo, like he wanted. Belle was a principled woman, but she didn’t have a death wish. “We’ll just tell them what happened, and—“

“I ent feckin’ talkin’ to any feckin’ cops,” Nasty snarled at her.

“But if the two of us explain what happened, then-“

Nasty spat a bloody streak of phlegm at her feet. “Blokes like me, lass, we dinnae hae th’ best track wi’ police. I’m out o’ it, me.”

She desperately wanted to argue with him, but he was already walking away. “And where will you go?” Belle asked. “You’re not the most inconspicuous-looking man in the world. Malcolm’s boys will be looking for you – that’s for certain. Let me call the police. You don’t have to talk to them – as far as they’re concerned it’s a routine insurance claim and a report of vandalism, okay?”

He looked as though he wanted to object, but his eyes weren’t quite able to focus.

“Dammit,” Belle cursed. She ushered him to a chair and dialed 9-9-9 while he was befuddled. If they didn’t get a report on file first, there would be trouble.

*

"Well that was a damn travesty," cursed the tiny woman who'd nutted him, slamming the phone into its cradle. God, but his head was hurting. Nosty couldn’t tell if he’d been sprawled out on this chair for ten minutes or an hour.

"Can you believe that?” she carried on. “Just because it's a gang of snotty, middle-class kids making trouble, they act like I’m the bad guy! Are you certain you want to report this, Miss French? Miss French, are you certain this isn’t a case of mistaken identity? They can’t even spare a patrol officer to take a statement until tomorrow. We’re not in any immediate danger, they tell me.”

"Alright, dinnae fash yerself," Nosty groaned. His shoulder hurt a treat, but the headache was worse. The shapes in the mist were spinning pinwheels now. He didn’t know why he was still here, except that it was somewhere to be heard and seen.

"You know, we really ought to treat this..." she sighed, tugging at the neck of his jumper, tearing the blobby wool free of his scabbing skin.

Nosty yelped in protest. "Nae hospitals!" He wasn’t going back there unless it was in a body bag.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Fine. But I deal with open wounds every day, and this needs a wash and a bandage."

"Is tha’ wha’ this is?" Nosty asked, looking around the room.

Large drawings of twisted figures - animals, plants, elements - cover the walls in wispy, smoke-like strokes. He couldn’t tell if his vision was blurring or if the fog came in with them. The drawings were a good way to pull focus – that, and the pain. You could always focus on the pain, but it rarely accomplished anything.

He stared at the walls instead. The drawings looked like clouds or summat; not quite real, but still totally recognizable. Either that, or was well and truly fucked in the head. "Dinnae look much like a clinic tae me, luv."

"No, I... It's a tattoo parlor. For your skin,” she added uselessly. “But I have antibiotic ointment and dressings, if you'll get that top off and let me have a look."

He's supposed to know that. Must have forgotten. He needs to rest.

“That feckin’ hurts!” Nosty roared, pulled from his fugue by a sudden sting. How long has he been here?

“It’s rubbing alcohol,” the woman sighed. She’s wearing a pair of powder-blue, latex gloves on her hands. “I did warn you it might hurt. Come on, just a bit more….”

He felt petulant (another library word), but couldn’t quite muster the strength to push her off. Instead, he sat still as the grave while she smeared him with ointment and wrapped gauze over his shoulder. Best just to get it over with, then. And then he’d find somewhere out of the wind to nod off and recover.

“Come on, now, just look at me – there we, are. Come on, Nasty…” She lifted his chin, and Nosty’s brown eyes met electric blue ones. “Ah, I was afraid of this. I’m sorry, but I think I gave you a concussion. I know you don’t want to go to hospital, but—“

“NAE HOSPITALS!” he bellowed. “Nae cops, nae hospitals! Are ye daft?!”

“Alright, fine. But that means you need to stay awake with me tonight. Can you do that for me, Nasty?”

“’S nae my name,” he slurred. “’S Nosty. Nozzer. Nozzle.” Her eyes were very pretty.

“Oh, that’s much better,” she grinned. It didn’t look like she was taking the piss. “Nosty. I like it. Is that short for something?”

He glared at her. Well, he tried to glare. Probably he looked like a lunatic whose head was lolling.

“So just Nosty, then. That’s fine. I’m Belle. Tell me about yourself. Where did you get your tattoos?”

“Prison,” he sneered, and waited for her to recoil.

“Yeah, I figured that. The swallow’s common enough. Sailors used to use it to show they’d been at sea for 1,000 miles, did you know that? If they drown, the swallow is supposed to flutter down and lift their soul to heaven. And the old bare-knuckle gents I get in here think it makes their fists fly, but these days, you really only see it on convicts. What about the other one?”

Nosty looked down at his pale, bony shoulder and realized that his jumper neck had been sliced clean open. That sod’s blade could have ripped a gash in his neck. Best not to think about that. “Oi, there’s nae cause fer getting’ me kit off,” he complained. “I’d’ve given ye a tumble if ye asked, luv.”

“Don’t make me hit you again,” she quipped.

Nosty chuckled. “’S supposed tae be a lizard,” he said. “But me mate wi’ the needle couldnae draw fer shite. Looks a bit like a cock ‘n bollocks, eh?”

“It does a bit,” the woman – Belle – laughed. “But why a lizard?”

Nosty shrugged. “Like lizards. Read a book where they can break their arse-end off and run if summat tries tae take ‘em. Safe, yeah?”

“I can cover it over with something a little more reptilian, if you want?” she offered.

“Wi’ summat wispy like that?” he accused, nodding toward the walls full of flowing figures. Bugger, but his head hurt.

“If you like. Or with something simple and black. Not tonight, though. We’ll do it once you’ve recovered. No sense in leaving you hurting in both shoulders.”

Nosty nodded. Then he threw up.

The rage took him. It was too much. The world was pushing in around him, and this Belle was starting to sound like she had expectations. He wasn’t her fucking pet. He was a right hard chip off the gutter who’d glassed a cunt two feet in front of her, and he wasn’t sorry, either. Whatever she’d said to keep him out of the clink, it wasn’t his problem.

He vaguely recalled trying to slam a door that had already been knocked off its hinges by an over-zealous teenager before the fog swallowed him. The pain increased tenfold, and he spent the night holed-up safe (well, dry, at least) in an abandoned building down the block from his old stomping grounds. It was still his patch a full week later.

“Twenty quid,” Nosty growled.

He hated pot-heads. They were harder to manipulate than heroin addicts, for a start, and if they didn’t get their fix it typically wouldn’t kill them to wait and try again. But this girl was crawling in her own skin, and she was stupid enough to try negotiating with a bloke like him. She probably had so much mixed-up shit in her system that she needed the puff to take off the edge.

“Come off it,” the specky girl groaned. “That much ain’t worth more’n a tenner.”

“It’s twenty or ye can bugger off.” He only had a bit of puff left to move, and then he’d have to figure out his next step.

“Give it to us for ten and a blowy, then?” she purred.

Nosty’s prick stirred with interest, but he’d have spent the whole time thinking of someone else with prettier eyes.

In theory, he knew better than to take sex instead of money. You could take sex and money; that was fine. Brilliant intimidation tactic: fucking your mark behind a bin and then charging full price anyway. Let the wankers know he wasn’t a bloke to be tugged around by the cock. But sex instead of money? That would have to be a very cold night, indeed.

“Twenty quid,” he snapped. “Or the next time it’ll cost ye a hell o’ a lot more than a blow job.”

She rooted through her bra, producing another tend pound note, which she handed over with a scowl.

“There’s a good lass,” Nosty smirked, watching as she stumbled away from him. His path led through the worst parts of town, mumping a few quid here and there from packs of Jack the Ripper tourists, before wrapping around to Osborn Street again.

Nobody bothered him. Rambling to yourself in in a thick, Glaswegian accent was great – if you wanted to look mad and frighten fat tourists and posh twats – but it didn’t do as well for a conversation. He’d never been so long without a gang – even in prison, there were other bodies, other voices. It might just be easier to gash himself with a broken bottle and go back.

Like he’d give them the pleasure. Besides, he wanted another swat at the cunt who’d sliced him more than he wanted chance at a morphine-nap, and that meant staying out of lock-up. With that thought in mind, he headed past The Illustrated Woman for the third time in as many days. It certainly wasn’t because he was worried about the lass.

That woman who’d called herself Belle wasn’t in, which was just as well. She’d almost made him the other day, before he legged it, and he knew with the certainty that the sun rose in the East that he’d just put his foot in it if they spoke. For some reason, that bothered him. He couldn’t figure why. She’d not tits to speak of, and had probably given him lasting brain damage, but something about her was working on him – even from a distance. It was good for him that she was out.

Besides, that meant he was free to look. He’d looked before, on one or two occasions when he’d just happened to pass this way, but it felt more like a starving man sneaking crumbs from carpet. This time, he’d come upon the proverbial pie-cooling-in-window scenario. It made him feel a bit like a cartoon rabbit.

But there was nothing cartoonish about the images in Belle’s shop. Everything he could see from the street resembled a living creature. Well, more like the idea of one. The shapes twisted on themselves in shades of grey that never quite formed a solid black line, but he could still tell what they were supposed to be. Well, sort of. Some were flowers or animals he’d never heard of; others were fire or arabesque patterns that looked like a spring breeze to him. But the point was made: blossom, fight, death. Even an idiot like him could catch-on, which was more than he could say for any other art museum he’d seen (they were often free to the public, and made a safe space to beg a bite or dodge the rain).

He looked down at the corner of the freshly-replaced plate glass and saw a small, white card in the corner. You’d have to really be looking for it to see – the grander, fancier pieces on display dominated everything – but Nosty spotted it straight away. It hadn’t been there yesterday.

On the card, someone (probably Belle) had drawn a lizard. Not a wispy, smoldering salamander or a dragon with a beard: just a lizard. It was simple, solid black, and a little larger than the droopy cock currently blazoned over his biceps.

“It’s for you, you know,” a gentle voice said from behind him. Nosty looked up, but refrained from spinning around. He could see Belle’s reflection in the glass.

“We can do something more elaborate if you prefer, but I thought simple was best. You seem like a person who appreciates boldness. How’s the cut, by the way?” She placed her hand delicately on his shoulder. The dressings had gone gray, so he’d done away with them and changed into a pilfered sweat shirt.

“S’not bad,” he answered honestly. “Smells okay. Ye did good work.”

“Malcolm hasn’t given you any trouble?”

“Nae. I dinnae keep tae the places where wee, ickle kiddies play.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Belle sighed. She took his hand and led him into her shop. Nosty – shocked by the gesture – followed without a fight. “I spoke to the police the next morning. Malcolm didn’t report anything.”

“That’s good, innit?” Nosty asked. If that twat hadn’t reported his beating, and instead took it like a man, then that was street justice at its best.

“I don’ t think so, no. It means there will be no proof that he was the one who did this, unless the police investigate him, which they won’t. It’s been more than a week – I’m sure whatever cuts and bruises he had are healing. I, uh… I was afraid he’d found you when you didn’t come back. Homeless people-“

Nosty glared at her.

“Sorry. People vanish in London all the time. I wasn’t sure what to do, or that you would want to be found. But then Dove said he saw someone in a kilt loitering the other night, so I put up the lizard and here you are. You came back.”

“I didnae mean to,” Nosty hedged. “Jus’ wanted tae see if tha’ lanky cunt were spoilin’ fer round two.”

The look Belle gave him was unreadable.

Nosty tugged off his sweatshirt and presented his biceps for inspection. “Get on wi’ it, then. I cannae pay ye, but ye already knew tha’.”

“You want the one I drew here?” she asked, holding up the card. “It’s a gecko. The tail comes off on this species; I checked. We can do something more elaborate if—“

Nosty shook his head. “Keep it simple. Safe.”

“Tail on or off?” she asked.

Nosty thought about it for a moment. “On,” he decided. Ready to run was best.

*

To his credit, Nosty didn’t flinch when the needle touched him. She’d seen grown men weep openly during the tattoo process – there was nothing shameful about it – but the nervous rocking, sobbing, or downright jumping made it more difficult to work. Paper and canvas didn’t fight back – except in a strong breeze.

He was staring blankly into the mirror ahead of him, and Belle took the opportunity to examine him more thoroughly. He was pale and thin, that much was plain. The mass of thick hair coiling down his back looked as though it had benefitted from the attentions of someone who knew how to roll the locks at one point, but they’d gone a bit frizzy at the scalp. But the most interesting thing about Nosty was the bird’s nest of scars – concentric circles of varying completeness, something like the Olympic logo for torture – knotted over his chest.

“Where did you get those scars?” she asked, wiping away the ink and blood from his shoulder. The lizard was almost done.

“I’ll show mine if ye show yours, luv.”

 

** **

Belle shrugged, and finished filling in the final toes on the lizard’s foot. The other one truly had been awful, but you would have to look very closely to see the difference in skin texture (a side-effect of most tattoos applied with improvised tools) that would always exist.

She rolled up the hem of her dress, and displayed her thigh, prepared for the worst. Long, thin scars ran in parallel tracts, crisscrossing her flesh. At a distance, he might have mistaken them for stretch marks: proof of rapidly expanding hips from girlhood to adolescence. But no stretch mark had ever looked like that. Along every contour, and in the frames they created, she bore delicate, white ink – a lace of scenes and images that flowed up her hips.

“Self-inflicted?” Nosty asked.

Belle chuckled humorously. “No. My father thought… well, it’s not a pretty story. Suffice it to say, I’m no great fan of extended hospital stays, either.”

He reached a hand forward to touch the slightly raised flesh, but seemed to think better of it. “Mine were.”

Belle’s eyebrows shot up. “You did that to yourself?”

“Braeken bottle through me chest. Used tae take me holiday sin Section 2, y’ken? ‘til it weren’t profitable for ‘em. Nurses tol’ me I’d be better off dead.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Belle’s heart ached for him, and she slipped off her powder-blue gloves to rest her palm against his flesh. Nosty flinched.

“It ent a fecking petting zoo,” he grumbled, but without his usual venom.

“No,” she agreed. “More like an aviary. A little bird’s nest.”

Nosty didn’t have time to scoff before she spoke again.

“I think you should stay.”

“Ent a pet,” he edged, more serious now. “Ent a guard dag, nae some sad-sack ye can fix.”

“It’s not a crime to be broken. Malcolm’s probably trying to kill you, and I’ve no idea what that means for me, but he’ll probably be back. I’m not an idiot: it’d be good to have someone who knows the streets around the place. But this isn’t about that. Honestly, Nosty, I’d like to tattoo you. You’d be doing me a favor. Most of my designs are built around scarring – tattoos for caesarian sections, or mastectomies, or port scars. Soldiers coming back with missing limbs, or worse – missing friends. The Illustrated Woman is about survival.”

“An’ what if I’m nae in th’ market fer a hide full o’ ink?”

“Then you can still stay,” Belle shrugged. “It’s an offer – not a trade. There’s a spare room in the upstairs apartment. Well, it’s my library, but there’s a pull-out sofa you can use until we come up with something more permanent. Come and go as you please.”

Nosty looked between her and the reflection of his lizard tattoo in the mirror.

“A’right,” he grimaced. “But only ‘til I get ano’ go at tha’ Barrie cunt, yeah? I ent yer fecking friend.”

Belle’s mouth turned up, ever so slightly, at the corners, and all was settled.

*

*

It hadn’t been easy, their tentative arrangement (with more than a few spats and nights in the streets), but Nosty finally seemed almost at ease in her presence. He maintained a filthy and amusing stream of ear-endless chatter, of course, but Belle had assimilated it into the background of her otherwise sanitary life. That was how she knew it was coming, in retrospect: The Illustrated Woman was too quiet.

“Nosty?” Belle called, hoping she was mistaken. “Noz?”

She could hear motors in the street, and the faint sound of music drifting in from one of the neighborhood homes. Straining her ears, Belle could just about pick up the tell-tale signs of voices – out of sync with the beat – coming from her back alley.

Belle broke out at a full sprint. “Nosty, what’s happening?”

She nearly twisted an ankle rounding the bins, and barreled headlong into the small, peninsular courtyard behind the building. A sharp fist swung wild, nearly roundhouse, and pulled wide of her head by a few centimeters.

“Get the fuck out o’ here, Belle,” Nosty snarled, reining in his punch. Christ, he’d almost hit her.

“Not unless you come with me,” Belle panted, tugging at the back of his jacket. He had three children – not even fully into the miseries of puberty yet – backed into a corner. They all carried switch blades.

“Where did you get those?” Belle demanded, pulling herself together and pushing in front of her friend. “You boys are not allowed to carry weapons.”

Nosty bristled and tried to push in, but Belle didn’t budge. He looked down, and saw her small, pale hand resting on his chest. It was not over his heart. Never that; his heart wasn’t worth a damn. But directly above his bird nest of scars? That was worth something, if only because Belle had a hundred and one different plans to make something beautiful of it.

His bird nest, where the swallow was born. That’s what she whispered into his ear when sleep eluded him and he got a little hot under the collar, anyway. And she’d stay up late and soothe him like a babe, but she didn’t want to mother him to death. Didn’t crowd him when all he needed was his space.

These little shites had come for him, wearing their stupid fucking collars, on orders from Malcolm the Cowardly Cunt. That was alright. Nosty could take care of himself. But Belle regularly came back here with rubbish for the bins, and every now and again she’d sneak off for a sly cigarette he wasn’t meant to know about, or sometimes just for a breath of what passed for fresh air in London. If it’d been her they found here and not him, she’d be dead. He’d seen it before – once or twice; cock-eyed corpses chilled through and reeking...

It couldn’t happen to her. Not like that.

“Nosty, I said stop!” Belle snapped, pushing harder against him.

“Tha’ cunt deserves—“

“But they’re not Malcolm! He’s not here – he’d be exposed if he came back, and now we know that he’s not willing to risk it, we can figure out what to do. But I can’t let you hurt them, Noz. They’re just children.”

“Och aye,” Nosty spat. “Wee, bitty bairns wi’ knives that’d stick ya through ‘fore I e’en heard ye scream.”

He made for the assailants again, but Belle was made of steel.

  
“Boys, I want you to throw those knives in the bin,” she instructed, in a voice that brokered no arguments.

To his utter shock, two of the three did. Christ, but they were young. Younger even that that first pack he’d walloped.

“Yours as well, please,” Belle repeated, and this time the little lad obeyed. “Now, if you’ll all please wait here, I’m going to ring the police. I shouldn’t worry – they’ll most likely call your parents and have you scolded for loitering. After all, nothing’s actually happened yet, isn’t that right?”

Three head bobbed up and down on necks too small for their frames.

Nosty wanted to object, he really did. But Belle wouldn’t like it if he did, and she always expected him to be better than he was. Expectations were one of many things that Nosty could do without, but with that kind smile and those impossibly blue eyes… well, he just couldn’t bear to disappoint her. Belle had that effect on people.

“Please don’t call me mum, Miss,” one of the boys begged.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Nibs, Miss.”

“Well, Nibs, I reckon if you all legged it right now, you might make it home for tea, yes?”

They didn’t need telling twice.

“So tha’s it, then, eh? The li’l bastards jus’ scarper off an’ tha’s tha’. He’ll send more, y’ken.” Nosty didn’t know if he wanted to kill her or kiss her. Bell settled the argument for him. She tasted like raspberry lip gloss and the barest hint of toothpaste.

He pulled her to him, body responding to urges he’d never dared to articulate. Belle was beautiful – he’d have to be dead not to want her – but this went beyond wanting. This was need.

“Fucking hell,” he moaned, taking every inch that she gave. Nosty was 100% sinner, and sod the saint. His hands trembled at her hips and waist, but fell nearly to pieces at the small, firm breasts high on her chest. “Alright, love, wha’ th’ hell was tha’ fer, then?”

But Belle was just smiling and laughing at him.

“Don’t you see? We’ve won. Barrie can’t touch us without stepping out of the shadows, so he’s sent children to do his work. He counted on us doing something stupid, and then tomorrow’s headline would read all about a mad Scott and a tattoo artist assaulting some nice, suburban children. But you were so good – so calm.” Tears welled in her electric blue eyes, which – impossible though it seemed – made them even bluer.

“Ye could hae been hurt, ye daft gel,” Nosty growled, but his lips were already plastered against Belle’s delicate neck. “An’ when th’ nex’ lads come, wha’ then, eh? I cannae lose ye, Belle. I cannae. Ye’ve been th’ whole world tae me.”

“We’ll be careful,” she promised. “I’ll be careful. But I know Malcolm, and he’s a coward. He’ll expect us to be the architects of our own demise. He doesn’t plan for things like patience or mercy. You were so good,” she sighed, cupping him through his kilt (a proper one, now). “So good.”

Nosty ignored her petting and focused instead on working his fingers into the bands of Belle’s panties. What the hell had he been thinking – they could have been doing this the whole time? He was a fucking moron. And – oh God, she was wet for him…

“Does this mean you’ll stay?” Belle nibbled all along his jaw. “Knowing that Barrie won’t come, will you still stay?”

“D’ye want me tae?”

“Oh yes,” Belle purred. In fact, yes was all either of them said for quite some time that night.

Fin.


End file.
